Trabia Schema
by Industrialis
Summary: Sequel to the conspiracy story Trabia Stratagem - Chapter 4: In the Mirror
1. The Ghost

~

Flourescent lights blurred together between the jagged skyscrapers of Nebria. The neons of every hue did their best to fend off the black of night, and cast a metallic shine upon the angular buildings. Below their dizzying heights, enclosed bridges and dull-metal roadways arched and connected one skyscraper to another.

The city itself existed somewhere within these roads and bridges, and within the interconnected skyscrapers. The people of Nebria were in constant transit between the towering landmarks. Every inch of crafted metal served a purpose, and the people of the massive city-state lived at peace.

But peace has always been a luxury for Nebrians.

Above Gregon Center, the glass tube-bridge that ran through the giant MetroMercial shopping skyscrapers, a night-shattering explosion caused instant shock. Shoppers dropped their bags of expensive just-bought items, and ran to the glass walls to the source of the light.

A squarish TACH-88 cargo ship had caught fire in midair. Its rear end was overtaken by growing flame, and the craft was losing altitude fast. A trail of smoke and metal shards floated in the air behind, as it dove in a steep descent to the ground a thousand feet below.

Some Nebrians screamed in panic. Others reached for communicators in their pockets, and dialed for emergency. Children tugged at their parents' coats and pointed in confusion. One or two passers by uttered a solemn prayer, shook their heads, and continued on down the bridge.

The TACH-88 made a hard turn. It swooped upward, and began a shaky path for the Gregon Center bridge.

Screams filled the glass and shook a terrible vibration throughout. Panic-stricken citizens fell over each other in a mad dash, running in either direction toward the bridge's entrances. Children lost grip of their parents' hands, and fell into the sea of terror. Bodies slammed against the glass walls, pressed and suffocating in the newly claustrophobic bridge.

A few Nebrians were too stricken to move; they were pushed to and fro by the screaming masses, but their distant eyes were locked upon the closing aircraft.

Fire had spread completely over the TACH-88; it resembled only a molten fireball, propelled at breakneck speed by the craft's burning fuel reserves. It radiated heat and smoke as it passed the surrounding buildings, and the metal surfaces fogged bright white.

The same fog began to cloud the glass bridge. Crying citizens felt the air around them slowly heating. They gradually lost sight of the incoming craft.

But an all-too-familiar sound made them turn their heads, and heave a gasp of hope.

Another craft was barreling their way, from the opposite direction. It was perhaps twenty feet long, and very thin, wide enough for one man to sit inside. Its black exterior shined from blinking lights. Its design was sleek and rounded, with an organic nose sloping into a blacked-out cockpit. Short wings Neon blue engines left a glowing trail as the craft grew closer, wailing a high-pitched scream.

The Nebrians felt the glass shake as the craft passed over the bridge. The heat-fog instantly dissipated, and the glass was clearer than ever. The glowing flames were merely yards away from impact.

The thin black aircraft dove sharply into the fireball. Black metal crushed and split away as the two bodies met. Debris pounded the bridge walls, sometimes cracking, sometimes breaking through. But the TACH-88 did not strike. The mangled wreckage passed nearly under the bridge.

All terrified eyes were still upon the falling blaze, as it plummeted along the mountainous skyscraper toward the roadways below. A feint flash of light rose from the surface of the black aircraft, and a shining plate of metal detached. A small body lifted away. It hung in freefall, quickly enveloped in thick smoke.

A white-hot explosion rang with a thunderous pound. The wrecked aircraft fragmented, and flaming dust rained harmlessly on the speeding cars below.

Composure was returning to the people on the bridge. They were spreading apart, some searching through the shattered bridge to find their separated parties, and others sitting on the glass floor to catch their breath. Silence replaced the calamity that had unfolded only seconds ago.

The sound of breaking glass almost brought it back. Heads began spinning, looking for the source of the horrid sound. Some began to scream that the bridge was collapsing, but they were quieted right away. A crowd began to gravitate to a spot on the transparent floor, where a few were pointing and shouting excitedly.

A steel grappling hook had punched into the thick glass, and a taut cable was hanging from it. At the end of the cable, a man was hanging by one arm. A shining suit of black and silver armor covered his body, and a helmet masked his face. He was not gripping the line with his hand; it seemed to extend from within his forearm.

The crowd began to clammer, as the man rose toward the bridge's floor, the cable disappearing into his armor as he grew closer. Shouts and cries of wonder filled the air.

"He's alive!"

"Who's down there? Is it the TACH pilot?"

"No, you idiot, it's the soldier! Look at his armor!"

"Hyne, it's the Ghost! Look everyone, it's really the Ghost!"

"Get out of the way, he's almost to the top!"

The soldier reached the end of his cable, and hung under the bridge floor. His free arm swung back, and a long blade swished out from his forearm. It pounded the thick glass, and cut directly through. Citizens backed away quickly, as the blade came through a second time, and a third.

In no time at all, the soldier had cut a sizeable square into the bridge, and he carefully swung himself in with the help of those standing by. The blade and grappling hook returned to their places, and his armor closed.

"Holy _Hyne..._it really _is _the Ghost!!"

"Look! Look at the slash!"

They crowded around him as he stood, and pointed in awe at his smoke-dulled armor. Across his chest plate, a deep slash was cut through. Inside it, a flourescent glow came forth.

They stood and stared at him, long after he had called for assistance, and the rescue teams had flooded the bridge. When emergency crewmen offered to treat their wounds, they did not respond, lost in wonder of the faceless soldier. They had read of his doings since they were children, and so had their parents, and their grandparents. All their lives, they had heard of him, always wondering what to make of the strange and fantastic stories.

But before them stood a man of supernatural blessing. He was known only as the Ghost; he had lived for generations, and fought in every one of Terra Network's great wars. He was the immortal soldier.

And though the pains of battle would come, the legends foretold, and war would change the ways of the world, the Ghost would always remain.

~

TRABIA SCHEMA

Written by Industrialis

Based on characters and situations from _Final Fantasy VIII_

All references to _FFVIII _Ó** SquareSoft**

All original characters and concepts Ó** the author**

~


	2. Wasteland

~

A dull and heavy cloud had found its way into the Wasteland's skies. It filled the stratosphere for miles around, and bore down upon the inhabitants below. It brought no moisture as snow or freezing rain, but sent a sharp, dry wind across the shattered streets. Like a screaming arrow, the wind passed between the mangled towers of steel and half-standing buildings. Once, the Wasteland was seen through a pale red hue, the color of rust and dried blood. But since the cloud had come, even that desparate shade had been washed away. Those who walked the Wasteland saw it in dark, dry grey.

Amid a broken old hotel, the wind seemed to feel strongest. It swooped down from high above, careening through missing windows on the only wall that still remained standing. It rode inches from the brick, stone, and debris that covered the ground. And unsuspectingly, it rose, and stabbed through the weary young women who stood amid the aged destruction.

Selphie tightened the wrist straps on her worn leather gloves. She pushed away chunks of broken sidewalk; something was shining below them. Just for once, if she could find something on the list, she might have a decent meal or a warmer place to spend the night.

To no avail; the shining object was a dented copper pipe. She picked it up, and tossed it behind her back. A tired sigh, and she returned to her work.

A piece of exposed metal scraped against the skin of her arm. _"Ay!--_ehh..." She began a pained cry, but stifled herself before it released.

"Selphie! Was that you, Selphie?"

A young lady hopped energetically over the rocky ground, flailing her arms. She was thin, with skin the color of ivory. Her hair was a soft blue; it was long and straight, and it settled at her shoulders when she slowed her pace. Metal reinforcing bars scraped at her black one-piece jumpsuit, but she paid them no mind.

"Are you all right?" she cried, grinding to a quick halt at Selphie's side. Her voice was light and airy, though it held a most serious tone.

Selphie nodded. "Yeah, it's all right...just scared me, that's all. Better go back to work."

"Are you sure? I heard you crying! People don't _cry _when everything's all _right!"_

"I'm sure," she rolled her eyes. "Okay, Mina? I'm just fine. Now let's hurry up before they notice us!"

Mina shook her head vibrantly. She grabbed a determined hold of Selphie's arm, and examined it. Selphie's jumpsuit sleeve had been torn through, and her skin was smattered with a little blood.

"Oh my goodness!" cried Mina, "that's horrible! Wait right there, and I'll go find a bandage!"

Selphie caught hold of her suit as Mina turned to leave. "Are you _crazy?" _she whispered. "They'll _find out _if we don't keep working! It's okay, really! We'll just leave it go until tonight, all right? It's better that way."

Mina stared bluntly at Selphie's face, but finally gave in. "Well, you would know best...but I still think you should at _least..."_

They heard a gruff shout from behind the lone wall. A man stepped around it, tall and imposing, and clothed in a thick black suit like their own. But his chest was fitted with a homemade armor plate fashioned out of scrap metal, and he wore a fighter pilot's helmet with the visor flipped down. A rusted shotgun lay in his grip.

"What's goin' on down there?" he called, leaving a wake of dust as he approached.

Selphie's heart raced. She cringed her face nervously. "Quick! Mina, wait here, I'll run over to that..."

"Stay where you are!" shouted the guard, raising his shotgun. "Hands where I can see 'em, now!"

Selphie and Mina quickly obliged, and waited frozen until the man reached them. He lowered the weapon to his waist, and stared them down. "What's the hold-up? You two haven't found a thing today."

"S-sorry, sir!" blurted Selphie. "We didn't mean it, we just..."

To her absolute horror, Mina cut her off. "You see, sir, my friend Selphie fell down and cut her arm. It looks really bad!"

She grabbed Selphie's limp arm, and presented it dutifully to the guard. "I think it needs a bandage. Do you have one?"

Selphie held her breath, blinking in absolute disbelief. She fought to keep her composure and stood without moving, forgetting that Mina still held her proudly by the arm. The imposing man watched them, stone-faced, and Selphie's heart pounded for an eternity.

The guard swung up his shotgun, and struck Mina in the stomach. She yelped and fell backward into the rocky ground. Selphie lost her balance, but managed to remain on her feet, staring once again at the expressionless man.

He scowled at the two of them. "Quit playing around and _work. _There's _guns _under these rocks, and I want to see at _least _two by the day's end." And with a kick of dust into the collapsed Mina, he returned to his patrol.

Selphie dropped to the ground beside the wounded girl. Mina lay on her side, curled up in the dust, and littered with rocks and metal. But her pearl-white face, scratched from the rough ground, was placid and calm. With her right arm, she tried to lift herself. But she looked down, and seemed to weaken, and fell back against the rocks.

"Don't move," said Selphie gently. She placed a nervous hand upon Mina's back, and another on her shoulder. "Just relax, it'll be all right...can you breathe?"

Mina raised her calm visage. "Oh, yes," she replied. Her voice faltered, but did not sound pained.

"Oh, thank _Hyne! _Thank Hyne, you can breathe. That's good. Um, okay...is anything else wrong?"

Mina glanced her eyes to Selphie's, and allowed a weak nod. "Yes...I think...I think I hurt my arm."

"Okay...well, don't move it...let's try to keep it still. Which arm?"

"My...my left one...the one I'm laying on."

Selphie bit her lip. "Uh...all-right, all-right...let's try to get you off it."

Mina stared back. "Are you sure? I...don't think you should."

"Yeah, I'm sure. We've gotta get the pressure off it. I'll help you roll on your back."

Mina seemed to protest, weakly straining as Selphie carefully brought her down on her back. She brought her good hand up to Selphie's face. "Wait, wait..."

But Selphie brushed it eagerly away. When the hidden sight met her, she instantly forgot the menacing guard who might return. Her unmet quota of weapons briefly escaped her mind. And her panic maifested itself tenfold.

Mina's white-skinned arm lay against the ground, covered in dust and tiny concrete bits. Just below her elbow, a contorted mess of electric wires bloomed from a large, round hole through the flesh. The wires were live and sparked furiously. Streams of black oil squirted out of the wound, and dripped across her skin and into the dirt.

A long black bar made of steel, a reinforcing bar from a long-demolished wall, poked up from the ground. It passed through the wound in Mina's arm, and out the other end. Covered in dirty oil and wrapped in hissing wires, it stared in Selphie's face.

Mina rested her head against a chunk of rock, and swallowed weakly. "It's rather funny...isn't it?" she smiled. "We both hurt our arms...on the same day."

~


	3. Assignment

~

Commander Jasen Krayle stared out the glass wall of his office, his eyes fixed on the dark angular skyscrapers before him. He watched the bright yellow consruction craft float alongside Gregon Center bridge, repairing damage dealt nearly a week ago. _It could have been so much worse, _he thought. _Aren saved a thousand lives, maybe more._

Krayle's eyes focused on the windowpane itself. He stared at the image reflected in the glass: A tall, wide-shouldered man with a pale visage and dark eyes. His angled face and short-buzzed black hair were slightly warped in the window's representation.

What could have brought him through? he wondered. _What drives this young man so hard to survive? He's like nothing I've ever seen. The torture he endured is enough for any man to hand over his life. To say, "that's enough," and be at peace. But this man..._

This man refuses peace.

He gave his attention once again to the Nebrian skyline. A small, armored hoverjet was approaching his highrise office window. It came within several yards of the glass, but then began to rise, and was soon out of his sight.

Pain...he acts as though immune to it. This man has lived his entire life with great measures of pain. It seems he has accepted the pain; learned to live in spite of it...or perhaps, because of it.

One day, I shall have to ask him how he does it. Were I, or anyone else, in his shoes, we'd have given in long ago.

Krayle picked up his overcoat from atop his office desk, and left the office.

~

The cavernous Landing Bay 003 was alive with activity. Mechanical officers ran from place to place, gathering equipment and running to the center of the steel-walled bay. Massive side-sliding doors, leading out to the Nebrian sky, were tightly shut. Cables and hoses, attached to various places in the walls and controlled by robotic arms, swung their way toward the center of the landing bay. A heavily armored transport hoverjet had just landed, and it lay waiting to disembark its crew.

A duo of black-suited pilots stepped down from a lowering platform. A third figure stood behind them, the brave soldier who saved Gregon Bridge a few days before. The man was a bit taller than the pilots, and much wider at the shoulders. He wore his bulky grey Terran armor, in perfect condition except for a slash across the chest. His flat-fronted helmet was cradled in one arm.

The soldier's face was sharp and pale. His cheeks were angular; his nose and mouth thin and defined. His wide eyes held a touch of distant blue, and dark lines under his eyelids gave him a tired appearance at first glance. He peered out from behind locks of wavy black hair. Beginning at his forehead and stretching between his eyes, a thin _X _was tattooed across his upper face.The young man appeared young, perhaps a little over twenty.

The pilots nodded to him and went their ways, as Commander Krayle approached. "Welcome back, Lieutenant Ghost!" he shouted with an informal salute.

The soldier saluted in the same fashion. "Thank you, sir. The restoration crews wish to inform you that Gregon Center will be open within the hour."

"Very good," he said, and shook hands with the young man as they met. "You're doing a hell of a job out there. And I don't just mean the bridge incident. We've never seen the kind of performance you've been generating on the streets."

"I'd _better _be showing results," Ghost said coldly, "considering all the _cash_ you guys put into me."

"That's the spirit!" chuckled Krayle.

They stepped into a narrow, floodlit hallway, and a sliding door hissed shut behind them. Lower-ranking officers immediately stepped aside as the two passed.

"So they're still watching me, are they?" noted Ghost. "Still waiting for something to go horribly wrong."

"Not quite," said Krayle. "They're mostly concerned with the strain you've been putting on yourself. The Plexus wants to make sure you're healthy, physically and otherwise."

"Never felt better," Ghost replied. "But I really wish they'd quit their spying, it's creeping me out."

"I'd say it's a small price to pay for what they've given you."

"True."

They slid open a doorway, and entered Krayle's office. The commander motioned for Ghost to take a seat before the desk. "Good news, I've got another assignment for you. An international one. It might be a little tough, however. We need you to hunt somebody down for us."

"Who's the target?"asked Ghost, sitting down.

Krayle leaned against the desktop. "A munitions thief, a Wastelander. He ambushed a supply truck carrying some heavy weapons. Managed to snipe off the whole crew from a distance. The Plexus is _not _happy about this."

Ghost blinked his wide blue eyes. "Sir...did you say a _Wastelander?"_

The commander peered at the young soldier. "Yes, I did. He smuggles arms through the Wasteland, and lives there most of the year." Krayle raised an eyebrow. "Is this a problem, Lieutenant?"

"No..." trailed Gost, but he quickly regained himself. "Sir, no sir. As you know, I have much experience working in the Wasteland area. I'll find him."

"Good. You'll be briefed in detail prior to dustoff. You'e got three days to prepare yourself. Sorry we've got to put you back in the field so soon."

"I was growing anxious anyhow," said Ghost. He locked the black helmet over his face, and looked at Krayle through a faceless mask with slitted eyes. "Too much time out of this thing makes me uncomfortable."

~


	4. In the Mirror

~  
  
"Mina, you're a real sweetheart... but you sure get me in a lot of binds..."  
  
Selphie sighed with a little smile at the girl upon the bed. It had taken a bit of effort, but Selphie had managed to lay Mina under the bedsheets. Mina was limp and perfectly still; the blankets rose and fell gently with her breaths. Her face poked out at the tip of the covers, and revealed a light smile on her face.  
  
She always smiles like that, thought Selphie. She's so bright and cheery, always the one to pick me up when I'm down.  
  
Selphie sighed. I used to be like that.  
  
She unzipped her black jumpsuit, and tossed it carelessly onto the cold ground. Things have changed so much. And so much of it's my fault. I can't go anywhere without seeing what my failure has caused. I don't care what Mina says.I can't just wake up tomorrow and say, "I think I'll be happy!"  
  
She pressed her metal-scratched palms upon the surface of the old dresser. I'm not allowed to be happy, she thought, staring at the long red marks that ran up and down her hands. Trabia is ruined...everyone's miserable...there's no hope anymore. I can't be happy, knowing I caused all that...  
  
She raised her eyes, and began to study her own face. It was something she rarely attempted as of late. Her shame prevented her a great number of times from meeting with her mirror. But tonight, for some reason, she felt that she deserved the disgust that watching her own visage always brought.  
  
So this night, she gazed boldly upon the torture of herself. Her face had grown pale and weary from labor in the bleak, dreary Wasteland. Her auburn hair, once cut short and styled with a little curl at the end, was long, faded and dusty. Bruises and scratches covered her naked body. Even her vibrant green eyes seemed to have dulled over time. Her eyelids were swollen purple for want of sleep.  
  
I did this... I did this to everyone... oh Hyne, it's all my fault!  
  
Selphie's puffy eyes grew tight. She pressed her face into her rough palms, and felt her lip tremble as she breathed a submissive cry. Her saline tears ran across her fingers, and stung at the tiny scrapes upon them.  
  
"Hyne..." she exhaled, sobbing as she always did, when Mina was asleep, and she could. "Oh, Hyne... I'm sorry... I know I deserve it..."  
  
She cried to herself long into the night, until she had used all her tears, and then continued without them. But sorrow slowly exhausted her over time. It left her sitting upon the cold floor, shaking, and wrapped in her own arms. She stared silently at the broken light bulb on the ceiling, until her sorrow dragged her head to the floor, where she fell asleep.  
  
~  
  
Insertion will take place at 0735 hours. Insertion team will be dropped at Point A* for immediate target engagement. See target profile (attached) for description of target and acceptable methods of force.  
  
"I'm sick of this," sighed Ghost tiredly, as he read through a folder containing a basic version of the next day's mission briefing.  
  
He lay on the cot of his private quarters, a small but adequate room that was standard for soldiers stationed within the TerraPlexus. It was a simple, white-painted, four-walled space that many soldiers decorated to keep away monotony. It was not uncommon to find letters from family, immodest calendars, or even medals and decorations taped to the boring walls.  
  
But no such things adorned Ghost's quarters. The room more closely resembled a prison cell. The only bits of originality within it were a notepad on the foldable bedstand, a mirror on the wall, and an old leather- bound book on the metal dresser.  
  
*See page 13-C for information on Wasteland slave trading procedures.  
  
Ghost shut the folder, and placed beside him on the cot. I know all about them, he thought. I'm not in the mood to read that before bed.  
  
He stretched out on his bed, and glanced at his chest. A wide slash was cut through his blue tee-shirt. It was the only such tear made; the rest of his shirt and his grey sweatpants were free of damage.  
  
There goes another shirt, he thought. They've gotta make me an asbestos one, or something...  
  
He rubbed into the hole in his shirt. The skin on his chest was rough from a pale-white scar.  
  
They can do all the follow-up exams they want. But something about me isn't right... there's something trying to change me.  
  
He laughed to himself. Not that I haven't changed already. I've experienced some changes that no man could understand. I've felt the pains of a mortal wound... I've smelled the blood pour from my heart... I've watched my enemies deal the final blow upon me.  
  
And I've awakened... with another man's face.  
  
He shuddered. I can't get over that feeling. It's been ages since I watched the burial of Aren Bowes. And I still feel I should be there with him.  
  
A passing glance into the mirror brought him face-to-face with his new image. Ghost was a Terran man; his thin build and sharp facial features attested to that. There had always been a deep respect within him for Terrans, and there were many instances when he wished he truly fit in with the noble race.  
  
But Aren Bowes was not Terran. Even he was not sure where he came from; he had no recollection of his parents or an early home. He was shorter, wider in stance and more threatening than this Ghost was.  
  
Aren Bowes was cursed with countless misfortunes, with pains that only compounded as years passed. But despite this, Aren was proud. He could handle the pain. He was strong, unfaltering; the one who went the extra mile when no one could. Aren was a self-made force to be reckoned with.  
  
But there were some things he could never do on his own.  
  
Aren failed his most important mission. He brought suffering to the people closest to him. A thousand questions lay unanswered in the wake of his death. And to add insult to injury, he now stood as the Terran Ghost, with an undeserved second chance.  
  
The rumors aren't true, he thought. But I will make myself the Ghost. I'll not let this phantom's life go unused. Mine time is expired.I've no right to live for myself now. I'll not let others lay victim as I have. I'll be the one to bring retribution when others can't.  
  
He sighed, and lowered his head to his knees. "But the world's a big place."  
  
~ 


End file.
